


These Dreams Just Won't Disappear (Please Say You'll Stay)

by LiraelClayr007



Series: Winterhawk Bingo, Round 2! [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Archery, Deaf Clint Barton, Dream Sharing, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, clint barton has nightmares, god!Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Clint can't sleep. He's been having nightmares as long as he can remember, and he's getting, ahem,tired, of not getting any rest.He knows it's dangerous, but he calls on the Lord of the Dreamworld for help.He never thought the Dream Lord would look like a regular guy, with longish brown hair and bright blue eyes.And who ever heard of a god named Bucky?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo, Round 2! [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1892659
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	These Dreams Just Won't Disappear (Please Say You'll Stay)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again!
> 
> Ah, this was a fun one!! I love stories where the gods interact with the people–even when the gods are dangerous!–so I thought I'd try my hand at writing one. I know I've taken bits and pieces of "dealing with the gods" from books I've read; I have to mention Tamora Pierce's Tortall books because I'm for sure heavily influenced by those (and they've been favorites of mine since I was in middle school!). 
> 
> Many millions of thanks to Vex for the title and for soooooo much encouragement. 💜
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Love, Lira 🏹
> 
> Winterhawk Bingo
> 
> I3 - Dream Sharing

Clint can’t take this anymore.

He can’t remember the last time he closed his eyes without the nightmares haunting his sleep. 

The endless ghost town.

The shadowy giant.

The darkness.

There are others, but those are the big three. He’ll be dreaming something ordinary–watching penguins at the zoo, brushing his teeth, walking his dog–and then the dream will shift. The colors will fade. Just slightly at first, like someone dimmed the lights. Then soon it’ll look like a photograph from the 1970s, like the colors faded in the wash.

And then he’ll hear the footsteps.

Or feel the darkness chasing him.

Or realize that he’s the only person left alive in the world.

No, he can’t do it anymore. So he draws the circle, arranges the forget-me-nots around the bowl of milk, and lights the small beeswax candle.

Then he sits on his bed to wait.

The Lord of the Dreamworld looks like an ordinary guy.

Clint looks him up and down, then signs, –I thought you’d be taller.–

Surprised, the Dream Lord signs back. –I get that a lot.– Then, –How did you know to sign? No one has ever tried that before.–

It’s Clint’s turn to be surprised. –I sign because I’m deaf. Mostly. I can hear a little, but I don’t sleep with my aids in.– And then he’s almost afraid, because it’s a bit overwhelming to realize that he followed a few steps and is now in the presence of an actual god. A god who apparently knows how to communicate perfectly with him, with no need for the paper and pencil he set out, just in case.

But a god would be able to do that, right? Just know the right language? He probably speaks Russian and German and Hebrew and Gaelic and a hundred others besides. ASL is just another language to a god.

Right?

The Dream Lord just stands there, dark and mysterious, strands of brown hair falling into his face. His blue eyes almost glow in the dim moonlight that comes in from the bedroom window.

Actually, Clint thinks they _are_ glowing. An icy blue glow that hurts to look at too long.

Those eyes seem to look inside him. Finally the Dream Lord’s fingers begin to move again. –Aren’t you going to ask why I sign?–

Clint shrugs. He wants to know, but he’s not quite sure how to approach a god. This conversation is much less formal than he’d expected. He hasn’t had to bow yet, and he hasn’t been ordered to use his voice. He’s thankful for that, he doesn’t like to speak aloud much anymore, but he’d been expecting it all the same.

The air around the Dream Lord seems to ease somehow, and when Clint makes eye contact again everything about the god is softer. Especially his eyes. They still glow, but the blue is no longer cold; it’s soft, like the petals of the forget-me-nots Clint had to pick for the summoning.

–My voice was taken from me long ago,– the Dream Lord tells Clint with his fingers. –I can speak to humans in their dreams, but not in the human realms.–

Clint just blinks up at him for a moment. Then he signs, –Dude. That sucks.–

The Dream Lord _laughs_. Clint can’t tell if he’s making any sounds or not, but his face is bright with a smile and by the way he throws his head back he looks just like a person laughing at a particularly funny joke.

It feels like some critical test has been undertaken and passed, not just by Clint but by both of them. Which of course makes no sense at all, so Clint pushes the thought out of his head. –My Lord– he signs, and is surprised when he’s interrupted.

–Please. Not my lord. Call me Bucky.– He carefully spells out the name, B-U-C-K-Y, then shows Clint the sign: the sign for the letter B held over the right eye, then pulled down the face, as if to show sleep.

Clever.

But _Bucky_? Odd name for a god. Sounds more like a kid from a 1950s sitcom. Then again, he met a tightrope walker once who swore she knew a minor fertility goddess named _Jennifer_ , so he supposes anything is possible.

–I am– he starts, but again the Dream Lord– _Bucky_ –interrupts.

–I know who you are, Clinton Francis Barton.–

Clint flinches a little from the middle name. It’s not wrong, but he hasn’t used it since he was small, when he could hear a little more, when the names were shouted, one after another.

Since his name used to hurt him.

–I am sorry.– Bucky tells him, and Clint can see the truth in his words. In his eyes. –I know your past. I did not intend to wound.– 

They consider each other for a time. Clint has no idea how to tell what this god is thinking; his face _looks_ human, but he’s wearing humanity like a mask and is well practiced at keeping it guarded.

As for Clint, he’s glad he’s still sitting on his bed. A god just apologized to him, apologized for an infraction not many others would have noticed, or even considered.

_What kind of god **are** you?_ he wants to ask. Gods aren’t supposed to _care_. They aren’t supposed to be _kind_. They are supposed to keep away from humanity as much as possible, only mingling when needs must, dropping in to touch the surface of the earth and then fading back into the realm of...well. That part’s up for debate. No one really knows where the gods go when they aren’t visiting humanity. Or can agree, anyway. But the distance part, and the aloofness, that’s well documented. And he knows the rules. Everyone does.

_The gods are not of us. Do not expect them to understand everything you say or do._

_To a god one moment is the same as another. Do not expect them to go by your timeframe._

_The gods do not experience feelings the way a human does. Do not expect kindness._

_Do not call upon a god unless absolutely necessary. You never know what could happen._

–Can you help me?– Clint finally asks. –I can’t sleep without the nightmares, and that kind of sleep is...– He doesn’t know how to finish, so he lets his hands fall into his lap.

–Bad.– Bucky signs.

Clint nods. It’s much worse than just bad, but he doesn’t want to try to explain. Just thinking about it is making sweat prickle his brow.

–I can help.–

Something loosens in Clint’s chest. He feels emotion well up behind his eyes, but he doesn’t let it overflow; that’s for later. For now he just breathes, signs, –Thank you. That’s– He stops, shakes his head, then tries again. –That’s not enough, just saying thank you. But it’s all I have.–

An odd look comes over Bucky’s face. If he wasn’t a god, Clint would call it _longing_ , but a god can’t look at a human with longing on his face.

Can he?

The moment stretches out, a bubble of time that stretches and stretches until Clint blinks and Bucky is looking at him impassively again. –A thank you is all I require. Lie down and close your eyes. I’ll be gone when you wake.–

_But what if I want to talk to you again?_ Clint wants to ask, but before he can make his fingers move Bucky’s fingers are on his forehead and he is adrift, floating in the dream world, deeply asleep.

In the morning he wakes refreshed for the first time in months. Maybe years. He cannot remember his dreams, but he can still feel the touch of Bucky’s fingers on his skin.

Clint waits almost six months before calling on the Dream Lord again. His touch had lasted three nights, three glorious nights of restful sleep: sleep without screams, without nightmares tearing at his throat trying to rip their way out into the world. The third night he’d dreamed of the Dream Lord himself. Almost, anyway. He’d been dreaming of a picnic he’d had with his mom and brother back when he was small, a day when his father had driven to a town five hours away and left them nearly a whole day of peace. So they’d packed a picnic and tromped through the tall grass to a meadow where purple and yellow wildflowers grew and a tall oak tree pierced the wide, Iowa sky on one end. The boys chased each other, tumbling and laughing, while their mother sang to herself and spread out their food.

It’s one of Clint’s happiest memories.

But partway through the dream, while he’d been watching a butterfly move from flower to flower in a patch of clover, he’d seen movement in the corner of his eye and looked up to see Bucky standing under the oak tree. “You don’t belong here,” Clint had called, but softly so his mom and brother couldn’t hear. “It’s only supposed to be the three of us.” Bucky shrugged. “It’s okay, I won’t tell,” Clint said, and turned back to his butterfly.

When he’d looked again, Bucky had been gone.

But now it’s six months later, six months of nightmares and fear and no sleep. Six months of reliving the good dream during the day and wishing he could have it at night.

The good dream. The _Bucky_ dream.

It only takes a few minutes for him to arrive this time, almost like he’d been listening for the call.

–Hi, Bucky,– Clint signs, allowing himself the smallest of smiles.

The Lord of the Dreamworld smiles back at him. –More nightmares?– he asks.

–Always.– He tries to keep the fatalistic look off his face. He’s not sure if he succeeds.

–Have you tried exercise? I’ve heard that can help, in some situations.–

Clint’s eyes flick to the bow hanging on his wall before he can stop them. There’s a long pause, the stillness in the room growing heavy, before Clint gives in. –No. Not anymore. I used to shoot, but I can’t, not without good sleep. I’m too jittery, too...– He can’t find the words to describe the helplessness he feels when he draws his bow but can’t find the focus, the _center_ , the calm stillness he needs to aim and fire.

–I understand.– the god says, and somehow he makes his signs like a whisper. A chill goes down Clint’s spine, and then he feels the truth of Bucky’s words, and peace.

–You need to sleep,– Bucky says. Then, inexplicably, he sits next to Clint. On his _bed_. Clint feels all his thoughts tumble out of his head, one by one, scattering across the floor.

Turning towards Clint, he asks, –Is there a particular dream you’d like?–

He almost says no, but then… –My bow. The first time I held a bow. The first time I loosed an arrow and heard the thunk when it hit the target. It’s probably stupid, my brother said it was just an archery lesson, but...– He feels the shy smile creep across his lips. –It felt like magic.–

–Of course it was. When time and space and circumstance comes together at just the right moment to give you a gift, that’s exactly what magic is.–

–Close your eyes.– This time it’s not just fingertips on his forehead but the god’s entire hand. His palm is warm and soft, and Clint has just enough time to think how nice it is to feel such a kind touch before he’s asleep.

The dream starts out hazy. His brother is there, telling him he’s too little for the bow on the table, he’ll never be able to draw it, not until he’s grown up some and has stronger arms. It’s just like it was all those years ago, though he can’t make out any of the background things, just Barney and the bow. But he’s got a feeling inside, something pulling him towards the bow, something telling him today is the day.

And then his teacher comes.

He steps back, startled. It’s supposed to be Trick Shot. That’s who it was all those years ago, on that amazing, magical day. He’s relived the memory so many times it would be jarring to see even a small change, but this is a big one.

His teacher is Bucky, the Lord of Dreams.

“You want to learn archery,” Bucky says.

Clint nods. He’s afraid to talk, to break the spell. Afraid his teacher might say no.

Or disappear.

He’s following the script of Clint’s memory exactly, so Clint plays along.

“It’s not easy. Especially when you’re so young. But you seem...right. For the task.”

Clint nods, eager. He hadn’t known then that they were training him for other, more nefarious, things as well. That day had been pure, beautiful.

Magical.

“Go on then. Pick up the bow.”

Clint had known the moment he held that bow that it was his. He’d never been able to explain to anyone in a way that felt quite right, but the bow felt like a part of himself; like filling in the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle or turning the last page of a really good book to find that the happily ever after happened after all.

It fits perfectly in his hand.

He puts his feet the way he’s seen the other archers do it; Bucky silently nudges them just a little, but otherwise leaves him to it. He picks up an arrow and moves to draw the bow but then hesitates. Looking at Bucky he asks, “Can I?”

Bucky smiles, and it’s like the sun coming from behind a cloud. “Of course. Just keep the arrow pointed toward the target please.”

Clint feels his face flush. He doesn’t want to mess up in front of his teacher. He wants to do his very best.

He knows how to draw, he’s been watching and waiting for this. It’s harder than he expects, but he’s stronger than everyone thinks. He’s been doing pushups and pullups in secret just so he could surprise everyone when they handed him a bow for the first time. And it works; he hears Barney say, “no way!” under his breath, and even Bucky lets a surprised sort of, “oh!” escape his lips when he draws the bow the first time. He knows he’s a little shaky, that he could be steadier, but overall he’s pleased.

“You can shoot,” Bucky says softly, not wanting to startle him. “Keep your breathing even, and listen to your heartbeat. Release as you breathe out, and in between heartbeats if you can. That’s a lot to throw at you, but you’ll feel it without even thinking eventually.”

Clint thinks back to that first time, how even then he’d understood that, and believed. Because he was already feeling and knowing things he didn’t understand.

The wind was blowing. Not much, but just slightly, and from his left to his right. And somehow his brain knew exactly how far left he had to aim to compensate. He didn’t have to think about it, he just _knew_ , almost like he could see it in his head. He knew how much gravity would pull on the arrow over distance, and how much he had to compensate for _that_.

So now, in the dream, he breathes in and out, in and out, and while he’s breathing out he looses the arrow. It doesn’t fly exactly where he wants it to go, but it’s very, very close, about a half-inch to the left of the bullseye.

Not bad for his first shot.

Bucky grins, Barney stands in shock, and Clint gives a little whoop. Just a little one. It’s his first shot, he feels like he can allow himself one little shout of joy.

He’s not sure what to do now. Should he try to shoot some more? But after ten seconds or so of dithering Bucky tells him to hold fast. He walks down to the target, pulls the arrow from where it struck, does something Clint can’t see. When Bucky comes back he hands Clint his arrow; now it’s got a purple ribbon wrapped around the shaft. “Keep this,” he says. “It’s the first one you ever shot.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, holding the arrow tight in his fist.

And through everything he’s held onto that arrow. It’s hanging on his wall now, over his bed, while he sleeps.

The next time…

He tries to tell himself it’s because of the nightmares. But those haven’t actually been so bad. He has them, sure, but only almost every night. And it’s that _almost_ that makes all the difference. Bucky’s touch lasted nine days, long enough for him to get actual rest, long enough for him to get back to the range. His hands grew sore, and then they got calloused, and now his bow feels the way it always did, just right, like he’d never put it down.

He tries to tell himself it’s about the rest, about having another week or so of good, solid sleep. If he can just get a little more…

But it’s not about the nightmares. It’s not about the sleep. It’s not about wanting more rest so he can spend more time on the range.

He just wants to see Bucky again.

So it’s only twenty three days later that he pulls out the beeswax candle again, draws the circle, arranges the forget-me-nots just so. The bowl of milk is barely settled in place, the candle barely lit, when a shadow falls across the floor.

Clint can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face.

He tries to tone it down before he looks up, but from the look on the god’s face he’s not doing a very good job.

–You again?– Bucky signs, but he’s smiling, so Clint knows he’s at least partly teasing. –Not to brag, but I know my work is better than this.–

Clint ducks his head a little to hide his grin. –Things are better,– he signs when he looks up again. –I’ve been shooting my bow again. It feels good. I even sleep most of the night sometimes.–

–But…–

Being looked at by a god is...intense. It feels like Bucky can see into him, can look into his eyes and just know everything. He feels vulnerable and raw, and he has no desire to look away. Because he can see something in Bucky’s eyes too.

He _wanted_ to come back.

Clint isn’t sure how long they stay like that: Bucky standing on one side of the circle, Clint sitting cross-legged on the other, eyes locked. It could be two seconds or two years; time ebbs and flows strangely around the gods. But Clint gasps in a breath and Bucky jerks his eyes away, and there is such a force between them that Clint can feel the hair on his arms stand up.

–The nightmares still come.–

It’s true. It’s not exactly the _whole_ truth, not the entire reason he risked himself to call upon the Lord of the Dreamworld yet again, but it’s true enough. _Never lie to a god. They can smell it on you, or maybe they taste lies in the air. If you must hide one truth, do it with another._ His memories of his mother are hazy, most of them like faded photographs, but this teaching he remembers clearly, and in her voice.

Bucky looks at him again; not so intently this time, but Clint still feels _known_. Finally he signs, –I’ve only given you good dreams.–

Clint nods, puzzled. The dreams from god’s touch have been perfect.

–Can you trust me?–

Not _do_ you, but _can_ you. Heart pounding in his chest, Clint nods. Then, wanting Bucky to know, to _understand_ , he signs, –I can. I _do_.–

Bucky nods, as if that settles it. Maybe it does. –On the bed, please. Lie down.– Clint, generally known for his lithe grace, scrambles up onto the bed and nearly falls onto the floor.

But instead of crashing to the floor, he ends up in Bucky’s arms.

“Oh,” Clint says.

For a moment Clint is afraid Bucky is going to drop him, but of course he is a god. He recovers from the surprise much more quickly than a human would.

“I can talk,” Clint says, his throat dry. “I learned when– I mean, I could hear at least some when I was a child. I just...don’t.” He shrugs. “I like to sign. But with my arms around your neck it’s a bit difficult.” He tries for a charming grin but is pretty sure he comes up with blushing mess instead.

He can’t read Bucky’s expression; he is a god, for all he looks human. But Clint thinks he sees some fondness there, some affection. Or maybe he just hopes.

After carefully placing Clint on the bed, arranging his limbs and even brushing his hair back from his forehead, Bucky signs, –You will not be alone. Close your eyes.–

He wants to ask what that means, that he won’t be alone, but obeying the god’s command is automatic. His eyes are slipping closed when he sees Bucky leaning over him, his face dipping closer and closer–

Bucky’s lips are gentle against Clint’s forehead, soft and featherlight. He wants to open his eyes, to pull Bucky down so he can feel those lips against his own, but the pull of the god’s sleep is too strong.

_Next time I see you I’m kissing your face_ , he thinks to himself.

He hears an answering chuckle in the distance, but since he can’t hear, he knows that’s just a dream.

Bucky is there when he opens his eyes. Not just there, but standing there with an eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth turned up in an almost smile.

“Well?” he says. “I’m waiting.”

Clint lifts his hands to answer, then realizes two things at once: Bucky spoke to him, and he heard it. Not the almost-hearing he does when he has his aids in. Bucky’s voice is real, clear, perfect.

Also sexy as hell.

“This must be a dream,” he mutters, and he hears his own voice.

“So does that mean you’re not going to kiss me then?” Bucky asks.

Clint feels the blush rise to his face. How unfair, to blush in dreams.

“How–” He almost chokes on the word and has to start again. “How did you hear that? About the–? I mean, I was _thinking_.”

The god doesn’t break eye contact. “You were already in the dreamspace. It’s not my fault you were projecting so–” there’s a brief pause here, and for a moment Clint is sure he sees Bucky _wink_ , but he must be imagining things, because his tone and inflection don’t change in the least– “violently.”

Clint wonders how red a person’s face can get, but then he remembers he’s in a dream and probably shouldn’t push that kind of boundary.

Changing the subject, Clint asks, “And the hearing thing?”

Bucky waves that off. “You can always hear in your dreams. I just reminded you.”

“You just…” Clint flexes his hands, fingerspelling nervously. “I need to sit down.” He shuffles backwards, not even a step, and bumps into a chair.

He’s sure there hadn’t been a chair there before.

Clint sits down, hard. His brain races, circling the unfamiliar and impossible ideas, trying to make them fit into the world he understands.

“This doesn’t feel like a dream,” Clint says. “It feels too real.”

The Dream Lord crouches down in front of him and peers up into his face. “Why can’t it be both?”

Clint holds his breath. “I–” he starts, but then the words get stuck in his throat.

He points behind Bucky, eyes wide, terror squeezing his chest so he can’t even breathe. The fingers of his right hand are spelling again, this time not nonsense but four letters over and over again: D-A-R-K-D-A-R-K-D-A-R-K.

He tries to back away, only remembering at the last second that he’s on a chair, which tips over and sends him sprawling. He scrabbles to his hands and knees, keeping his eyes on the encroaching Darkness. It’s not a normal dark, the dark of night and thunderstorm and basement. This is the Darkness.

His nightmare.

“Why did you–” he starts, but again the words can’t get past the fear clogging his throat. The god reaches out to steady him but Clint jerks away. Why had Bucky brought him here? Here to his nightmare, to this unrelenting, suffocating Darkness? He tries to find breath in all the confusion inside of him, tries to find something solid.

And then Bucky moves so he’s between Clint and the Darkness.

He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again, a decision falling over his features. He reaches out as if to touch Clint but stops just shy of his cheek, only the width of a hair separating their skin. Pulling his hand back, he settles himself comfortably in front of Clint, never breaking eye contact.

Looking into his soul.

–Please.– the god signs. –Please. You said you could trust me, and it tasted like truth. Trust me now. I will not let any harm come to you.– The look on Bucky’s face is the most human Clint has ever seen there.

Bucky reaches out a hand. Clint hesitates. He hears the rules about dealings with the gods echo in his head– _do not expect kindness_ –and then thrusts them aside. He does trust Bucky; the rules may tell him to be wary but his instincts tell him Bucky is true. And his instincts have never let him down.

He takes Bucky’s hand.

Together they get to their feet, still holding hands. Bucky’s still between him and the nightmare.

“Now,” he says, and then, interrupting himself, “Sorry, I have to speak, I don’t want to let go of your hand.” A wave of dizziness washes over Clint at the confession.

A god is holding his hand.

A god who doesn’t want to let go of his hand.

“Now,” Bucky says again, and does it sound softer this time? Clint can’t be sure. “It’s time to face your fear.”

Clint’s hold on Bucky’s hand tightens. “I–”

“Yes you can. Just look, okay? I won’t let go of your hand, sweetheart.”

A god just called him _sweetheart_.

“Okay,” he says. And it is okay. Right now he could _fly_.

Bucky steps out of the way, stands beside Clint now, and Clint is left to stare into the Darkness. It’s moving faster now.

“Tell me what you see,” Bucky says beside him, his voice a low, calming murmur in the chaos of Clint’s current existence.

Clint takes a breath, then another. “My nightmare,” he says. “Darkness that wants to swallow me whole.” He’s never looked at it like this before, he’s usually running the other way. It’s almost hypnotic, the way the edges ripple and waver as the black mass gets ever closer.

“Darkness, yes. But it is not out to get you, Clint. It is not hostile or bloodthirsty. It feels no malignant intent. It doesn’t feel anything at all. It is only darkness.”

Each word is spoken deliberately, like a walking across a stream on slick stepping stones, placing each foot firmly on the center. And the words are bare, plain, not full of the manipulation of a god.

Squeezing Clint’s hand gently, Bucky says, “Tell it to go away.”

He almost takes a step back. “Tell–”

“Yes. Just tell it to go away.”

This is the Darkness. It doesn’t listen when he screams. Or, if it does, it doesn’t care. But Bucky is holding his hand, so Clint finds the strongest voice he’s got and yells, “Get out!”

At first there is nothing. He’s about to ask what’s next when the Darkness...hesitates. It’s still coming for him, but it seems almost wary, as if its prey having something to say had never occurred to it.

“Again,” the Dream Lord says. “But _believe_ this time.”

Taking a deep breath, Clint yells, “You don’t belong here! Go away! Leave. Me. Alone.” The last three words fall into silence, stones dropped down a well, echoing throughout the dream.

And then the Darkness retreats, faster even than it had come, and after only a few breaths it is gone.

Sunlight shines down on them, warming away the last of the nightmare chill.

“Thank you,” Clint murmurs, 

“You’re in charge here,” Bucky says. “Just like you found your ears, just like you called the chair when you needed to sit. As long as you can remember that you’re in a dream–or a nightmare–you can change it however you wish.” He cups Clint’s cheek with his warm, calloused hand. “Your nightmares can’t control you anymore. With a little practice, you’ll be safe.”

Tears prickle behind Clint’s eyes. He feels both elation and a twist of regret. To be rid of the nightmares is the best gift he could ask for. But if they’re gone for good, he has no more reason to call upon the Lord of the Dreamworld.

Bucky is still holding his face, running his thumb back and forth across Clint’s cheek. Hesitantly, he says, “You could still call upon me. Not for sleep, just to...visit. If you want. I’d never–”

“Would _you_ want me to?” Clint interrupts. He tilts his head towards the god’s face.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Clint echoes, and Bucky understands, closing the space between them.

Had he been thinking about this? Longing for this kiss? Who thinks about kissing a _god_? But he’s not fooling himself. He’s been _hoping_ for a kiss from the first time Bucky touched his forehead. But he’d never even dreamed it could actually happen.

“Is this real?” he says, slightly out of breath, when they part.

Bucky’s face lights up with laughter. “I thought we went over this.”

Blushing, Clint says, “It’s very confusing. Could we maybe try that again, but in my world? When I’m awake?”

In answer, the god presses his lips to Clint’s forehead. Before he can process what’s happening he’s adrift; apparently Bucky’s magic works both ways.

Clint blinks awake slowly. His first thought is, _Why is it still so dark?_ And then everything comes rushing back and he cries out. “Bucky!”

A hand grasps his in the darkness, warm and safe. Reassuring.

The lamp beside his bed flicks on, and Clint sees that the god is sitting beside him, just where he was when he fell asleep. He pulls himself to a sitting position, stretches his arms over his head to ease some of the stiffness of sleep. It feels _good_.

Bucky’s fingers twitch like he wants to hold Clint’s hand again, but he rests it gently on his knee instead. Can’t sign with only one hand. Or you can, but fingerspelling everything gets very tedious.

They look at each other in the low light of Clint’s bedroom, and Clint feels suddenly shy. Which is ridiculous, because Bucky’s actually been inside his head–or as close as one can get–but there it is.

–Hi.– he signs.

Bucky smiles. –Hi.–

A still silence fills the space between them. And then…

–Did you mean it?– Clint signs.

At the same time, Bucky signs, –Can I kiss you again?–

They both nod, and smile, and Clint tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair, pulling him in for a kiss.

It’s much later–the starlight in the windows has been replaced with the grey of oncoming dawn–when Clint looks at Bucky and signs, –Can we do this? A god and a mortal?–

Bucky cradles Clint’s face in his hands and bumps their foreheads together. After a moment he pulls back enough to sign, –We’ll make it work.–

And they do.


End file.
